


A Walk by the River at Evening

by honeyedlion



Series: Stocking!verse [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Crossdressing, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Exploration, He works on it I swear, M/M, Naval Gazing, Pastries, Sebastian had problems dealing, Tea Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedlion/pseuds/honeyedlion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian thinks, and Ciel simpers at the passerby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walk by the River at Evening

Sebastian wonders at the picture they make. A lady and her servant, the mistress and the loyal dog. It's lies, all of it.  
  
Today Ciel is all in cream. He had commissioned this dress specially, a careful mimic of his mother’s everyday dress. The cream is flattering, warming Ciel’s normally cool tones, and widening a figure that doesn’t exist. The high collar brushes lace under his chin as he walks and the daring opening in the bodice shows a pale chest, small and undefined. Perfectly fitting the delicate fourteen year old girl Ciel appears to be, and Sebastian both loves and hates the looks flashed at them, dirty, hungry looks.  
  
A small tug on his arm and Ciel smiles wanly at him, lashes covering wicked bright eyes, mascara and good acting making them sweet blue pools. “Sebastian, let’s sit down somewhere. I tire of walking so endlessly.”  
  
“Of course, my lady.” And Sebastian ducks into a brief, if perfectly correct bow that makes her smile tenderly at him.  
  
He delights in the lies, and truthfully he believes his master does as well.

They stop at a small café, the sort of delicate, open air shop that has been springing up all over Britain, a new fashion from the French. The sort of place Ciel would normally scorn.  
  
Instead soft white hands pick through pretty, powdered petit-fours with seeming delight., though with restraint. Unlike his childish fiancé Ciel is the perfect image of a society lady. Coy, beautiful, refined. Sebastian pours tea carefully into cheap, pink-patterned china and Ciel sighs softly, relaxing in the smell. His posture is perfect, and Sebastian occasionally wonders how he learned this, or whether it is all mimicry, a tiny piece taken from every woman Ciel has ever seen. It fascinates him.

“Sebastian, won’t you sit down?” His mouth turns down in a perfect moue of distress. “I hate to have you hover. Sit, have some tea with me. I’m lonely.” He pouts, pretty pink mouth, and sweet natural charm, and if this had been the thing Sebastian had found waiting for him, bloodied and branded he would’ve eaten it right there, delicate sugar-spun soul, a drop of cream.

He hesitates for a moment and then sits across from his master, smiling blankly at him while kitten-small hands and silver dessert fork wreaked havoc among a village of sugared icing, cake, and jam. His hair is almost chin length now, in soft layers of deep unnatural charcoal blue. That morning, Sebastian had carefully curled that hair into a delicate bob of soft ringlets. He is so perfect.  
  
He is so fake. Like a living lie, walking and breathing and _lying_ with every dainty movement of his body.

“Where do you want to go next, my lady?”  
  
He hums, and takes a sip of tea, pink china on roseate mouth, and Sebastian feels an unholy lust rising in him, glee and want and a violent urge to rend things with his hands. It is something close to the joy that fills him when he fights (kills) for his master. His mouth curves into a bow.

Ciel smiles blandly back at him, pointed pixie face tilting beguilingly, as though in puzzlement. “Let’s go for a walk around the river. My feet feel much recovered.”

Sebastian stands easily, and bows. “Yes, my lady.”  
  
:

They walk along the batture, and Sebastian can hear the soft click of Ciel’s heels on the cobblestones beside him. Their arms are wrapped securely together, and the side of Ciel’s body presses sweetly into his own, a soft, flowered temptation.

“Sebastian.”

“Yes, my lady?” And Ciel stops walking, pulling on his arm as though to halt him, though Sebastian has already stopped.His eyes flick coyly to the ground before fixing beseechingly on Sebastian’s face. And this is why Sebastian loves this lie. This lie, that works so well not even knowledge of its deceitful nature can break the spell it casts.

Sebastian can still feel his heart beating faster at his touch, his hopelessly male, distinctly human reaction to that beauty- the need to help those pretty kohl-lined eyes. Beauty so heart-catching it has affected even him. And he loves Ciel for it.  
  
Even as his body thrums with the need to rip that pretty lie to shreds, blood and soft stained silk caught in his nails.  
  
“Am I beautiful?” His voice soft at first, but slowly growing in volume and intensity. “Am I beautiful, to you, Sebastian? Am I? Am I beautiful?”  
  
Sebastian can feel his heart beating and his body begins to sweat in reaction to Ciel’s wild, vulnerable tone. The feelings, so novel, so new he is captured by them and leans lovingly into Ciel. Far too intimate for a mere butler, his hand rising up to cup his chin.

“You,” Sebastian murmurs, and his voice catches on the words, “Are the most beautiful girl in London.”  
  
A pause.  
  
Suddenly Ciel grins, kitty-cat cruel, and pulls himself away. This, Sebastian likes to believe is his true form. Neither one nor the other. Not fiancé, or watch-dog, or primping posy, but this vicious cat smile and wide, petty blue eyes. This is his master, all masks ripped away. This is the truth and Sebastian loves that too.

“Obviously, Sebastian.” Says that pouting, rouged mouth, but the tone is cocky, masculine swagger. A big boy pushing a little one down in a school-yard. “Now hurry up, and stop standing there like a fool. I am ready to go home.”  
  
Sebastian unfreezes, and looks at Ciel’s silhouette walking away from him, slender limbs wrapped in muslin, silk and lace, and starts after him. He will take his master home, and he can feel a weighty excitement building in his abdomen. He will take his master home, and he will rip that body free from that pretty lace, just as one day he will rip that soul free of that pretty body.  
  
It is not always bad to be a butler, a loyal dog.

**Author's Note:**

> [Woof](http://honeyedlion.tumblr.com/).


End file.
